


Unconventional Weapons

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: An Unconventional Affair [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Belligerent Sexual Tension, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after <i>Reichenbach</i> and a confrontation at the Diogenes Club. Mycroft offers his protection but safety has never been what John wants from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He didn’t recognise her at first, the smartly dressed business woman with the sleek blonde bob standing outside his building. She’d had to call his name twice: _Doctor Watson_ , then: _John_ , before he’d stopped and turned.

“Anthea?” he said. “You look different.” He’d liked her hair brown. He’d always liked dark hair.

“He wants to see you,” she said. For a world-tilting moment he thought: _I knew it! He isn’t_ \- before she added: “Mycroft wants to see you.”

At her words a black Jaguar, utterly incongruous in that tired, run-down part of London, pulled out of a side road and rolled to a silent halt beside them.

“I don’t want to see him,” John said and walked away.

She followed, fingers flying across the keyboard of her Blackberry. The car crawled alongside, paying no attention to the blaring of bus horns.

“He says that if you’d kept your phone this wouldn’t be required. He says he would have called you on your phone.”

“I don’t need a phone,” he said. He’d got rid of Harry’s old one - too many memories - chucked it in the Thames and not bought a replacement; there was no one he wanted to call. “And I don’t want to see him.”

The Blackberry buzzed. “He says please.”

“Don’t want to see him.” He lengthened his stride. She kept pace effortlessly, long legged and graceful, as out of place among the burger bars, bookmakers and cash converters as the Jag.

"He says it will only be once.”

“I _don’t_ want to see him.” A bus was waiting at the next stop. He darted towards it but she blocked his path. “Just leave it, all right?” he said and felt his temper rise. Anyone else and he would have shoved past, chivalry be damned. That would be why Mycroft had sent her.

“He says he’ll send me every day,” she said echoing his thoughts.

“Tell him I’ll move.”

This time she didn’t touch the keyboard but a frown marred her smooth forehead. “He’ll find you again,” she said. “You know that.”

 

* * *

 

The Diogenes Club was just as John remembered: high windows striping sunlight across hushed corridors. Mycroft, sitting bolt upright in the Visitors’ Room in a worn Chesterfield, looked much the same too, if anything more sprightly - his eyes bright, his complexion clear, a man with a weight lifted from his shoulders. He’d appeared briefly at the funeral, a shadowy overcoated figure, sitting at the back of the church while a second rate organist wheezed out _Abide with Me._ John had been too busy trying to comfort Mrs Hudson to pay him much attention. He hadn't done a very good job of the comforting but why would he: he certainly couldn’t comfort himself.

“You’ve proved quite elusive John,” Mycroft said. He was occupied studying a menu. “It took us an entire six hours to trace you. Have a seat.”

“No thanks,” said John. “I’m not staying.” He stood at ease: hands clasped in the small of the back, eyes dead ahead, staring past Mycroft’s left shoulder.

“As you wish. Have you eaten? I was about to have lunch.”

“Yeah.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft purse his lips. “Today?”

“Yeah.” He’d showered and shaved. Had he eaten? He was getting as bad as- his mind stopped and carefully circled that thought.

“And what was it you ate?”

“Just leave it, Mycroft,” he said. “What do you want? You haven’t brought me here to ask what I had for breakfast.”

Mycroft consulted with an attendant then waved him away, waiting until he had closed the door behind him on silent hinges.“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t,” said John.“Don’t worry about me.”

“You’ve lost five pounds-“

“I’ve seen what you do to people you worry about.”

“And you’re drinking too much.”

“Fuck off,” said John which wasn’t the most eloquent response but expressed his feelings on the subject admirably.

“John,” from another man's lips Mycroft’s words would have been gentle, “my brother was extremely fond of you and I _know,"_ he laid a certain emphasis on the word, “he would want me to ensure your welfare. If there is anything I can do,” he hesitated delicately, “financial assistance perhaps?”

John unbent sufficiently to turn his head. “You can clear his name.”

Mycroft folded his hands beneath his chin and communed for a moment with a higher power, possibly himself. “Alas,” he said, “there are matters of national security…”

“Oh, aren’t there always?”

“Yes John,” said Mycroft simply, “there always are.”

“Well you can’t bring him back-”

“That I fear, is beyond my gift.”

“And you won't clear his name, so there’s nothing you can do for me, is there?” said John. “Was that it?”

“No,” said Mycroft after a weighted pause. “There was also this.” He reached into a pocket and threw something into the air. John caught it automatically.

A phone, the weight of it familiar in his hand, the same model as his old one, same colour too. He turned it over. No inscription. They’d discontinued the model a while back. He’d joked with…friends that he’d better never lose his phone it had taken him so long to learn how to use.

“What’s it got in it then?” he said. “GPS tracking device? Hidden camera? Phone line always open to a top secret Government listening post?”

“Two of the three,” said Mycroft.

“No thanks,” said John. He tossed it onto a side table where it landed with an audible thunk.

Mycroft retrieved it with a grimace of displeasure. “You will take it with you,” he said. “You will keep it with you. You will keep it charged. You will not attempt to lose, damage, destroy, swap, modify, sell nor otherwise dispose of it." He considered. "Nor any combination of those things,” he added with an air of lawyerly precision.

“Or what?”

“John,” said Mycroft, his expression perfectly serious. “You have in your lodgings a Sig Sauer P226R, a test firing from which would match the striation marks found on the bullet which last year killed a taxi driver in mysterious circumstances. Mysterious circumstances currently under review by an independent police team due to my brother’s involvement. How long do you think it will be before they turn their attention to his known associates of whom, let us be frank, there are very few?”

“What’s your point?”

“Like it or not,” said Mycroft, “you need my protection.” He held the phone out. “If you please.”

John felt the anger rise in his throat. It was glorious, a white tide of emotion blotting out the deadness inside. “You are unbelievable,” he said.

“I hardly think asking you to carry a phone is that onerous.”

“It’s not the phone,” said John. “It's this,” he gestured widely, encompassing himself, the newspapers neatly stacked by Mycroft’s elbow, London. “This is your fault. He was a far better man than you are and he’s dead and it’s all your fault," once he'd begun the words flooded out in an unstoppable torrent. "You gave Moriarty the ammunition he needed. You know he wasn’t a fake, you know it and you’ve done nothing. I've tried my best, no one returns my calls, no one will see me, I’m blocked at every turn. One word from you and you could clear his name and you’ve done _nothing_ ,” he took a long shaky breath, “and now you want to offer _me_ protection? Fuck your protection, what good do it do Sherlock?”

The name echoed around the silent room like a gunshot.

Mycroft’s face was expressionless but his eyes glittered dangerously. “And do you feel better for getting that off your chest?”

“Do you even care he’s dead?” The words sounded plaintive; he regretted them as soon as they'd left his mouth.

“If I say I do, will you take the phone?”

“You really are the ice man,” said John. The anger holding him upright evaporated as quickly as it had arrived leaving him bereft. His knees gave way and he sank into the nearest chair, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“So they tell me,” said Mycroft. He studied John for a moment longer but a faint jingling, heralding the arrival of silver trolley, interrupted them. A velvet-footed waiter pushed before him a selection of dishes sizzling atop of a copper food warmer. The air grew sharp with the tang of mustard and lemon. “Ah, lunch. Are you sure I can’t tempt you? The club runs an excellent kitchen.”

“I don’t-” said John. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Food, decisions about food, Mycroft, all suddenly seemed too demanding to fathom. He concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and deep. _Easy now, Watson._

“Try him with the hot savoury,” Mycroft told the waiter, “and I will have - are the oysters from Kent? Fresh this morning? Excellent - the angels on horseback.”

John looked dully at the proffered plate. Welsh rarebit. Crisp toast covered with molten cheese, all bubbly and brown on top, a red-skinned apple to one side, already cored and cut into quarters. His Mum had always made him cheese on toast when he was poorly.

And it was the thought of his Mum that finally did him in, cutting him down like a knife. He shoved the plate away, put his face in his hands and blubbed like a baby.

 

* * *

 

Of all the places in the world to have a cry about the death of one's best friend, the Diogenes Club was a pretty good one: it was peaceful, it was secluded and best of all he was left alone to get on with it. Mycroft darted him a single, pale glance before diving behind a newspaper but other than that no one took the blindest bit of notice. No one said his name, no one asked if he were all right, no one patted his hand. After some urgent rustling from the newspaper the waiter placed a box of tissues beside him. He grabbed a handful and kept right on bawling. Ella would have been proud.

 

* * *

 

Eventually he ran out of tears and tissues and emotion. The sunlight had shifted, casting slanted shadows across the antique bookcases. He was thirsty and his throat hurt.

The newspaper rustled again, cautiously. A glass of water materialised by the empty box of tissues. He drained it then, all at once ravenous, fell upon the congealing rarebit. He was scrunching his way through the last piece of apple when a tea trolley wheeled in bearing several silver teapots, cups of the finest bone china and a cake stand displaying a selection of pastel coloured confections.

“May I interest you gentlemen in afternoon tea?” The attendant’s voice was politely formal, betraying no interest in John's tear streaked face or swollen eyes.

John shook his head. “Not for me, thanks.” He sounded gruff but he felt ok. Not great but all right: calm.

“Well I will,” Mycroft said emerging at last. “Darjeeling, second flush.” He added three lumps of sugar and knocked it back with a defiant expression, staring at the cakes with hungry eyes.

John watched without censure, feeling his lassitude begin to lift. He knew what came next; he’d buried too many friends in his time. The surge of adrenaline that followed grief, that filled the emptiness and whispered in his ear: _you’re not dead yet, Watson._

“You know, there is one thing you can do for me,” he said when Mycroft had regained some of usual composure and was sipping at his second cup of tea while toying with a fondant fancy. Mycroft glanced up. What he saw in John's expression made him pause, cup halfway to lip. And there it was: that spike, that sudden thrill in the pit of John’s stomach and the soles of his feet. _Not dead yet, mate_. “You can fuck me,” he said.

There was a muffled cacophony as the attendant wheeled the tea trolley into a bookcase.

“Ah,” said Mycroft, "now." He replaced his cup on his saucer and watched as the attendant hastened from the room. “John.”

“What’s the matter?” said John, he leant back and gave Mycroft a lazy, insolent once over. It was the kind of look that could get a man in trouble in the wrong kind of bar, although the kind of trouble depended on the kind of bar. “Don’t you fancy me now Sherlock’s dead?”

The name didn't seem to have the power to hurt him anymore. He felt an ignoble stab of triumph when Mycroft flinched.

“That isn’t,” Mycroft snapped, then composed himself and began again. “In your current state I think it would be ill-advised."

"My current state," said John, "is your fault." Mycroft’s eyes widened fractionally: a direct hit. He pushed home the advantage: "You owe me this.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Mycroft said, “that it was even something you might enjoy.” He seemed affronted by the possibility that his omniscience was incomplete.

“Then there’s a lot you don’t know about me, isn't there?” said John. He brushed himself free of toast crumbs and checked his wallet. “You up for it or not?”

"What," said Mycroft, "now?"

"Yeah,” said John and felt his face crease in a fierce smile. “No? All right, I'll find someone else who is. Maybe one of the waiters will oblige, what do you reckon?”

“Unwise,” said Mycroft. “At least half of them work for the Security Service. Control gets terribly twitchy if they don’t check in every fifteen minutes.”

“And you wouldn’t want that,” said John mockingly.

“No,” said Mycroft, “I certainly wouldn’t.” He drummed his fingers on the chair arm and came to a decision. “The club offers a selection of private chambers,” he said. “If you will permit me five minutes?”

“No,” said John. He didn’t want a bed with all the intimacy that implied. Didn’t want nakedness and caresses and Mycroft’s idiosyncratic blend of barbed compliments and honeyed threats. He wanted something fast and hard and animal. Something to scour away the deadness inside and make him feel alive again.

“Well then,” said Mycroft with a note of antagonism that made John’s skin tighten in anticipation. “What do you suggest?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

And so John found himself towing Mycroft by one bony wrist through the long deserted corridors of the Diogenes Club trying doors at random. The first two were locked. The third opened into games room where a selection of lieutenant colonels played an arthritic and silent game of billiards; he nodded and left them in peace. The fourth led to a bare stairwell: institutional green paint, concrete floor and the smell of illicit cigarettes.

“This’ll do,” he said.

“This is the staff stair,” said Mycroft. His words echoed in the emptiness. “It’s in constant use.”

“That’s kind of the point.” A quickie, that was what he wanted, trousers down, shirt up and pushed up against a wall. Anticipation began to pulse through his veins. He turned his attention to his belt, his hands steadier than they’d been for a while.

“I don't think so,” said Mycroft.

“What's the matter. Scared you'll be escorted off the premises?”

”Scared?" said Mycroft, "No. But while you clearly relish the possibility of discovery, I do not.”

John’s grin stretched his face, using half-forgotten muscles. “You’ll just have to make it fast then, won’t you?”

“I assure you,” said Mycroft, his voice a sudden half-octave deeper, “you will find it far more enjoyable if I don’t.”

At that pronouncement John looked up, belt forgotten. Mycroft had his head cocked and was staring down with an intent expression. In his dark suit and white shirt he resembled nothing more than a large and predatory goshawk and John his small and squeaky lunch.

No battle plan survived first contact with the enemy; the mark of a good soldier was the ability to adapt to new circumstances. “Find somewhere else then. You’ve got five minutes.”

He didn’t need to say any more, the implied threat was enough to galvanise Mycroft into setting off at a pace that left him half-trotting to keep up. They wound their way between dark-hued paintings of long-dead patrons and sombre vases of dry leaves until Mycroft halted in front of a door identical to all the others.

“Here,” he said pulling it open and shepherding John inside. “They leave it open during the day. Some of our more venerable members are prone to spillage.”

‘Here’ was a linen cupboard, uncarpeted once more with roughly whitewashed walls; the Diogenes Club’s elegant surface was only skin deep. Wooden slatted shelves ran along two sides with a selection of neatly folded napkins, table cloths and towels arranged upon them. On the back wall a narrow, barred window let in a faint grey light. A mop, bucket and brush were propped in one corner. The air was dry and smelt of clean washing and pine disinfectant. He jammed the mop under the door handle. “It’ll do.”

“ _So_ pleased,” said Mycroft. In the half-light his eyes had almost vanished beneath his heavy brow and his nose appeared hooked and misshapen, giving him a sinister and rather malevolent air. That somehow only made it better. John grabbed his wallet, slammed it onto a handy shelf and attacked his belt in earnest. His trousers dropped straight to his knees, perhaps he had lost weight, but his dick was as ready as ever - tenting the soft cotton of his boxers in its eagerness. He gave it a quick squeeze and felt an answering familiar spiral of lust begin to coil at the base of his spine.

“Come on then,” he said, “kit off.”

Mycroft hadn't moved from his station by the door. “Doctor,” he said, “I am nearer fifty than forty and not, as you have so kindly observed, in the peak of fitness. If you wish me to perform as you require, then you must provide me some stimulus.”

“What kind of stimulus?”

Half hidden, Mycroft’s eyes glittered. “You _know_ what kind of stimulus.”

It took a couple of seconds for the penny to drop but when it did John’s knees went wobbly. “Do you want to suck it?” he said. He meant for it to sound arrogant, a bit ballsy, but it came out rather high pitched. He cleared his throat and tried again: “Is that what you need to get you going? To suck my dick?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft holding his gaze, “it is.”

John shuffled a slow step backwards, found the wall behind him and held on. “All right,” he said. And then, in a vain attempt to sound assertive as Mycroft stalked towards him: “just for a bit, though.”

“Oh yes,” said Mycroft, “only for a little while.”

Despite his protests of decrepitude he sank to his knees gracefully enough, careless of damage to his immaculately creased trousers and pressed his face into John’s crotch, inhaling greedily. John felt the faint scrape of stubbled chin against his inner thigh, very different from their previous encounters. Whatever his plans for the day, Mycroft hadn’t been expecting this. He felt a surge of triumph, almost indistinguishable from lust at the thought of outfoxing him. The cool air on his skin as Mycroft drew down his boxers had him twitching in anticipation.

Now he had his wish however, Mycroft seemed in no hurry to begin. Instead he inspected the revealed skin with minute care, rubbing his thumbs assessingly along the ridges of John’s hipbones, while his dick bobbed neglected below trying to attract some attention.

“Look at you,” he said chidingly, “a soldier should not be scrawny.”

“It’s fine,” said John and heard echoes of Sherlock in his words. He rubbed his palms against the rough wall, seeking the distracting sting of sensation.

“Is it,” said Mycroft. Even on his knees he could sound imperious.

“Make it fine then,” John said. He jutted his hips forward in emphasis. “Come on. Kiss it better.”

He felt rather than heard the answering sigh, a waft of heat across his belly, but wasn’t prepared for what followed: warm lips pressed for an instant to the tip of his dick, a sweet, soft peck, gone almost as soon as it registered.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, “very nice but that’s not-“

“Patience,” said Mycroft settling himself more comfortably into position. “Not one of your stronger suits, I am aware.”

John opened his mouth to protest - compared to anyone other than Mycroft Holmes and his decade-long machinations he considered himself to be a very patient man - but the words died away as Mycroft began rubbing the tip of his dick against his lips, expression almost reverent. The bolt of sensation shooting through his balls quelled any further objections, his protest fading into a wordless gurgle. Mycroft smiled then, sharp and sly, and closed his mouth over the head, holding him for a long moment on the heat of his tongue before beginning to suck with long, leisurely tugs.

Faced by an opponent in a position of overwhelming tactical advantage, John called a temporary halt to hostilities, braced himself against the wall and surrendered to pleasure. His hands, unbidden, found themselves buried in Mycroft’s hair. It was surprisingly soft to the touch, the ends not quite long enough to curl around his fingers. He hadn’t touched Mycroft’s hair before. Bit weird that really. He shook his head. The fine strands brushing against his palms, the warm hands holding his hips, the slow heat in his groin all felt good. No need to overthink things.

“Is it working?”

Mycroft pulled off for an instant, assessing. “A little more,” he said, sounding distressingly matter of fact and returned to his self-appointed task.

John watched the sleek dark head bobbing at his crotch, his fingers showing pale by contrast in the dim light. “Put your hands behind your back,” he said on impulse.

The glance Mycroft gave him was complicated but he obeyed, releasing John’s hips and linking his thumbs behind his back, leaving John free to dictate the pace. After a second his eyelids fluttered close as he sucked blissfully, all propriety forgotten. So that’s how you like it, thought John watching his dick slide in and out of Mycroft’s willing mouth. He was getting close now, hips giving urgent little thrusts, Mycroft’s answering murmurs of pleasure reverberating through his loins.

Too close. “All right, that’s enough." He tugged at Mycroft’s hair. The response was a low groan; Mycroft's head bobbed faster. In the right circumstances he apparently enjoyed having his hair pulled. “No,” John said. “Mycroft, no.” He released his grip and twisted an ear instead, not gently. “Come on. I mean it.”

Mycroft relinquished him reluctantly and pressed his mouth instead into John’s hip. “Just a little more?” he said.

John gathered all his will power: “No.”

There was no answer to that as Mycroft became distracted by the soft line of hair that transected the tender skin below John’s navel, mouthing at it sweetly, setting off an answering throb John could feel in his thighs, his balls, right down to the tips of his toes. “Let me finish you like this,” he said eventually, in a voice as smooth and dark as honey. “I will make it so good for you.”

“Up you get,” John said and hooked his hands under Mycroft’s armpits, hauling him to his feet before his resolve could crumble completely. Taken unawares, Mycroft staggered at the unexpected change in altitude and caught hold of the wall to steady himself. Their faces were suddenly only a few intimate inches apart. They stared at each other in silence. After a second, Mycroft's gaze dropped to John’s mouth in an unspoken question before flicking back to his eyes.

John looked away first. “Did it work?” he said, directing the question to a besuited arm.

Mycroft straightened himself up and fussed with his jacket fastidiously. “It worked,” he said. His tone was dry, all business once more

“You sure?” said John and broke off as Mycroft took his hand and pressed it to his groin, holding it in place so John could feel the heavy heat of the erection pressing against fine wool. “All right,” he said and flexed his fingers beneath Mycroft’s, feeling an answering stirring. “Yeah. Ok, that worked.” Nervous anticipation warred with want in the pit of his stomach. He dropped his hand, resisting the temptation to dry his suddenly sweaty palms on his shirt.

Mycroft, of course, missed nothing. “You’re resolved?” he said.

John didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

“But when are you not?” said Mycroft. “Very well, you have the necessary accoutrements?”

“Wallet,” said John and watched as Mycroft opened it up. Freed from scrutiny, something nagged at the corner of his mind. There was something different, a new aftershave or-

“Ah,” said Mycroft derailing that train of thought. He sounded perturbed.

“What?”

“Condoms.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Just_ condoms?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t see the problem: they were a reputable brand, in date. Not any fancy colours or excitingly ribbed but perfectly serviceable.

“Nothing else?” Seeing John’s increasingly stormy expression, Mycroft deigned to explain. “No lubricant?”

John peered at the condoms. “They’ve got lubricant on them. Look, it says so on the wrapper.” He stabbed a belligerent finger.

Mycroft contemplated the packets in his hand. “So I see,” he said.

“And?”

“Are you aware,” said Mycroft, “of the expression ‘a quart into a pint pot’?”

It took a few seconds to parse that one. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I’ve had them just as big. Bigger even.” This wasn’t strictly true but attack was the best form of defence.

“I’m sure,” said Mycroft, sounding anything but. “I may have neglected to mention, John, but some of the club chambers are _extremely_   well stocked. A change of venue...”

“No,” said John. Choice of the field of engagement was a prerequisite for any winning strategy. “Now, are you going to do this or-“

“Should you ‘find someone else who will?’ Yes, very well.”

A decision apparently reached, Mycroft stripped off his jacket and, with a slight flourish, unbuttoned his trousers. His cock shared none of his reservations, springing free from its confinement with a noticeable bounce. Even in the half-light it was noticeably thick and eager.

“All right,” said John, and felt his mouth go dry. His own dick, which had wilted rather during their debate, remembered it had a show to put on and not to be outdone uprighted itself proudly.

“How do you wish to proceed?” From Mycroft’s tone they might have been discussing a game of croquet.

“Sex,” said John thickly, still staring. His tongue crept out unbidden and wet his lips.

A sigh from above. “Yes, thank you. I had gathered that much. You wish to lie, kneel, straddle - what?”

Each word set off a string of pornographic images playing behind John’s eyes but he already knew the answer: “Standing. Up against the wall.”

“Not the most relaxing of positions.”

“You need the exercise,” said John, pushing recklessly at the button that he knew would get most reaction and felt an unworthy little thrill at the answering intake of breath.

“Well round you go then,” said Mycroft with a new edge to his voice and nipped open one of the packets with small, sharp teeth.

John turned, braced his forearms on the wall and rested his head on them, feeling his heart begin to pound. The packet rustled. There was a few second’s silence. The short hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. The position felt vulnerable in a way it hadn’t in fantasy. Perhaps it had been a mistake to be so antagonistic.

“Bend,” said Mycroft, his voice unexpectedly close to John’s ear. Hard hands on his hips pulled them backwards.

He obeyed, feeling adrenaline begin to spike – _what am I doing? This is a bad idea, this is a_ really _bad idea, he’s hung like fucking donkey…_

There was a pause. “You _have_ done this before?”

“’Course.” Although not that often, and not for a while, and not really like this.

“You need to spread,” a thigh nudged between his in emphasis, the prickle of lambswool against bare skin. Hobbled as he was by his jeans he did his best to comply, parting his knees awkwardly. “I suppose that will do. Ready?”

John took a couple of deep breaths and released them. “Go for it,” he said with what he thought was a pretty convincing display of confidence, though he couldn’t help a tell-tale flinch when something brushed against his arse. What probed into him though was not, he realised after a moment, the blunt tip of Mycroft’s cock, but something narrower, rounded. Fingers: surprisingly smooth and slick. He’d rolled a condom onto them. His breath left him in a gust of relief and he sagged against the wall. Clever men, the Holmses.

The next few minutes passed in silence as Mycroft worked him open with the minimum of fuss and the maximum of efficiency. He managed to make the process rapid, painless and about as erotic as a scale and polish. After a while John yawned and reached down for a bit of a rub and tug to keep things interesting.

“Stop that,” said Mycroft, not ceasing in his actions.

“Why?” said John. It was his dick, after all.

“Because,” the ‘you dolt’ was unspoken but quite clear, “it will make you clench up.”

“Oh,” said John, and dropped his hand. They’d neglected to mention that in med school.

Another minute ticked by. Mycroft’s fingers were moving smoothly now and John’s back was beginning to ache from the unfamiliar position. Time to seize back some of the initiative before he seized up entirely.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Enough stalling, let’s be having you.”


	3. Chapter 3

The hand stilled. John thought for a moment that he’d pushed it too far and that Mycroft was going to walk out, leaving him high and dry with his trousers around his knees.

“You owe me this, remember?” he said.

“Do I really?” said Mycroft. He flexed his fingers, setting off an echo of sensation which made John think – _oh?_ – and slid free his hand. “Lift your leg.”

He was still finding his balance when Mycroft said: “Now,” and crowded forward, breaching and entering him with one tight jerk of his hip.

“Mggh,” John managed once he’d got some air back into his lungs. He wasn’t sure if he’d have appreciated a bit more warning, decided on consideration probably not.

“Yes,” said Mycroft, his voice terse, “quite. Breathe.”

After a few breaths the sharp burn began to dull into something more tolerable. John could taste dust on his lips mixed with the smell of pine disinfectant. His chest felt tight; his thigh muscles quivered. Beneath it all was the creeping realisation that he might have overestimated his capabilities.

He set his teeth. “Bit more,” was all he said.

 

* * *

 

“This isn’t. Working,” said Mycroft some minutes later. He planted one hand on the wall to support himself and paused for a moment, panting rather.

“It’s working,” John said stoutly but it wasn’t, not really. Their height difference meant he had press his legs together, restricting Mycroft to clumsy shallow thrusts, while Mycroft, awkwardly crouched, kept barking his knees against the wall, uttering a steady stream of profanity which would have put the foulest-mouthed of squaddies to shame.

“Oh?” The unwonted activity had done what Irene, Moriarty and the entire British establishment could not and reduced Mycroft to brevity. He compensated by injecting a world of scepticism into a single syllable.

John considered. His arse throbbed at the unfamiliar treatment; the occasional fleeting suggestion of something better only serving to wind him up without getting him anywhere. He wanted…he didn’t know what. Something else, something more. Cool, clever fingers pinching his nipples perhaps or sharp teeth on his neck. That seemed too weird to ask for though, personal in a way that demanding a vigorous dicking wasn’t. And every time he’d dropped his hand and tried to move things along in the traditional manner, Mycroft cursed him and slapped it away. A change in tactics was required.

“Yeah well. Don’t think I don’t know your game,” he said.

He didn’t think he’d imagined the catch in Mycroft’s breathing, though he wasn’t sure what had caused it.

“What game. Would that be?”

“Being crap at this so as to make a point.”

There was a freezing pause. “The position was your choice.”

“I thought you’d be better at it. All your fun and games with the Household Calvary.”

“The Household Cavalry had a minimum height requirement of five foot ten,” said Mycroft tartly and pulled out leaving John feeling empty and, perversely, somewhat bereft.

“Now what?” he said. He’d intended to goad Mycroft into more effort; not less.

Mycroft glanced around and then without warning tumbled a selection of towels from the shelves onto the floor and nudged them into place against the wall with one well-shined shoe. “Get up.”

John looked at the pile of towels. “That’s never going to-”

“Up,” said Mycroft with such unmistakable command that John had obeyed before his brain had caught up with his feet.

“Ok,” he said wobbling cautiously.

“Good,” said Mycroft, he caught the cloth of John’s shirt tails and twisted it around his fist. “Now we’re going to try things my  way,” and without further explanation he hauled the shirt upwards, wrapping John in a hood of his own clothing before pushing him bodily against the cool, gritty brickwork. Suddenly trapped, his arms tangled above his head, his range of sight limited to the six inch circle of wall in front of his nose, John was acutely aware of the smooth press of every, single, neatly fastened waistcoat button against his bare spine, the metallic trail of a watch chain snaking across his hip.

“Stay there,” said Mycroft, “and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Do you understand?” The words were laden with unmistakable menace.

John nodded. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat prickled across his brow. His dick was, once more, as hard as steel.

“Good.” The pressure against his back eased for a second then returned, redoubled, as Mycroft entered him with slow, indolent assurance. This time he let his weight do the work, sinking deeper millimetre by almost imperceptible millimetre until he was sheathed to the hilt. John grunted and twitched, feeling his eyes open almost comically wide at the slow, relentless stretch. This wasn’t just an invasion; it was a full-blown occupation. No prisoners taken.

Fully seated, Mycroft leaned in for a long moment. John felt the full claustrophobic press of another man’s weight impaling him and felt a spike of genuine terror, panic crawling up his throat. Then the load shifted and Mycroft began to move. Not his previous tense little jabs but a more leisurely undulation; a slow insinuating circling of the hips. Fear receded in the face of a swell of gradually mounting sensation.

“There,” said Mycroft, his voice creamy with satisfaction. “That’s better, isn’t it?” His spare hand roamed across John’s chest, scraped blunt nails across his belly, taking pleasure from the texture of skin and muscle. John nodded reluctantly but Mycroft, a Holmes to the core, wasn’t content with anything less than complete capitulation: “Aren’t you _glad_ you didn’t find someone else, John?”

“Wouldn’t have been that hard."

“Oh you think so do you?” The undulations sped up teasingly, then slowed.

“Yeah.”

“You overestimate your appeal.” Teeth nipped stingingly at John’s shoulder then moved to his neck.

Yeah, he thought, like that. Bit more. “Nah. You wanted me from the first time we met.”

“And you faked a very convincing distaste.” Mycroft had stopped his caresses now. His free arm was clamped across John’s pelvis, holding him in place as he thrust. When he glanced down, John could just see the dark suit sleeve, a lewd contrast to his bare skin.

“Didn’t put you off though, did it?” he said and rolled his head restlessly, feeling his muscles begin to tighten. “Come on. Harder.”

“Not everyone is as understanding as I.” The words were almost drowned out by the frenetic slap of skin on skin.

“Understanding,” John managed. _There, yeah there, right there_. “Is that what you're calling it?”

“Of course." Mycroft's movements had become graceless and uncoordinated, losing their usual easy control.

“You’re a heartless bastard with a massive superiority complex!”

“Oh and _you_ Doctor, are just what every gay man dreams of. A partner who has to be coaxed to _touch his cock._ ” Mycroft punctuated the last three words with vicious thrusts then froze, his arm an iron band across John's hips.

“That’s not,” said John, but there was an uncomfortable ring of truth to it. His shirt began to fall in loose folds around his ears, muffling him. He shook his head free and found himself staring at Mycroft’s splayed hand. The ring was missing from his finger; that was the difference. “This was a bad idea.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. He remained motionless a second longer and then, without warning or apology, withdrew.

“Fuck,” said John, "ow." Undeterred, his dick bobbed eagerly againt his belly.

“So sorry,” said Mycroft. He didn’t sound it. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting. Spending review; tedious but necessary.”

“You’re off?” John said. By the time he'd mustered the coordination to turn around, Mycroft had spirited away all evidence of their coupling and was buttoning up his jacket. “Oh come on. At least give me a helping hand.”

“I’m afraid that’s the risk you take with these casual encounters,” said Mycroft, and brushed down his knees fastidiously, “satisfaction is never guaranteed. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson. You can find your own way out.”

And he was gone before John could protest further.

“You fucker,” said John. His arse smarted, his dick throbbed and he wanted, more than anything, to come. He glared at the door, waiting for it to reopen.

It didn’t.

The demands of the flesh soon won out over pride. “You fucker,” he chanted his hand working furiously on his dick, “you absolute fucker. You little _shit!”_

At the last moment he grabbed a convenient napkin and came so hard that his knees buckled, sliding him gently to the floor. He ended up in an untidy heap on a pile of towels, his dick still twitching and pulsing in his hand.

“Oh God,” he said and rested his forehead against the cool brickwork gasping in lungfuls of air. His heart thumped in his ears, his shoulder stung where he had grazed in his slow descent and his thighs felt as though they were on fire. He was either getting too old for this kind of thing, or he was exactly the right age.

After a while though, the sweat cooled tacky on his skin and his knees began to protest. A faint chime from outside the window -one of the staff texting while on a smoke break -  roused him to action. Time to move out before he was thrown out.

He rearranged his clothes into a semblance of respectability, folded the napkin carefully before putting it in his pocket, no telling what the boffins at Baskerville might do with it otherwise, and began seaching for his wallet. It wasn't where he'd left it. Mycroft must have moved it.  If he'd taken it, John was going to walk home because he bloody well wasn’t about to nip across to Whitehall and beg for it back. In fact, if he had his way, he'd never see Mycroft Homes again.

Actually that was probably guaranteed. Mycroft had just walked out without a backwards glance. No reason for them to meet again.

So that was it. Game over.

He wondered who’d won. And what the missing ring had meant. But it was Mycroft, even more of an enigma than his brother. Who knew what went on inside that formidable brain?

The chime sounded again, insistently. It seemed closer. A faint blue light illuminated the ceiling, chasing the shadows into the corners of the room. Peering around, he found his wallet sitting on a high shelf and, resting on top, the phone, its screen softly glowing.

He looked at it. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he said.

There was no response. He picked it up, experimentally. The glow faded. No messages, no missed calls. He put it back down. The screen lit up again.

“What happens if I just walk out of here and leave you behind?” he said to it.

No response; the screen remained stubbornly lit. He wasn’t sure if he were being forgiven or punished.

 _Oh fuck it,_ he thought and picked it up, watching as the glow faded slowly into dimness. If life got too dull he could always chuck it into the Thames and see what happened. Bound to be more interesting than throwing himself in.

He had one last look around. Towels lay scattered across the floor but he’d paid his taxes for the last twenty-odd years; the Security Service could sort those out.

The corridor was thankfully deserted but the foyer teamed with silent throngs of guests and staff. To one side a familiar figure in waiter’s livery watched their comings and goings. John caught his reluctant eye and beckoned him over.

“All right Rick,” he said in his best officer's boom ignoring the scandalised faces, “looks like there’s been a bit of a ruckus in the linen cupboard. You might want to sort it out.” And he was gone, past the doormen, through the double doors, down the steps and onto the street before another word could be spoken.

That was mad he thought, once he was a few streets away, absolutely ridiculous, and smiled slightly at the memory of Rick’s expression, Sherlock would have loved it.

His amusement faded; Sherlock was gone.

I'm still here though, he thought. Doctor John Watson. Still standing. Not dead yet.

He lifted his chin, put his shoulders back and walked on, leaving the Holmses behind him.


End file.
